


Yes Man, Yes Ma'am

by countessofbiscuit



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Age Appropriate Clone Shenanigans, F/M, Fives's favorite story, Gen, PWP, Public Sex, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Verbal Abuse, Voyeurism, everyone's a little shit, he's dined out on this for years, just bad behavior all around, stupid rhymes, this gets weird y'all, wtf even are dialogue tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-06 12:10:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12817230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countessofbiscuit/pseuds/countessofbiscuit
Summary: The story behind an enigmatic tattoo and Torrent Company’s most infamous dare, as partially told by Fives.





	Yes Man, Yes Ma'am

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [poplitealqueen's post.](http://countessofbiscuit.tumblr.com/post/168764731165/poplitealqueen-belated-wednesday-wip-quality)

“No, no, you’re right, he’s still a prime fucker—trust me, Geonosis will _freeze over_ before I forget how he waltzed up for my execution like it was the proudest moment of his short sad life and _still_ gave the order to fucking fire after what was probably the finest speech of mine. Seriously, you should hear Rex’s pep talks now that he’s lifted my best lines. 

“But anyway, Dogma’s a Torrent-man. He drank the vat-juice more than anybody, yeah, but still a _vod_. And before you throw the bullshit flag, hear me out. So, like a week after Kamino, we’re celebrating at 69’s…”

\- - - - - - - - - - - 

“Shhhh, you’re gonna wake him up!”

“Echo, he had _thirteen_ shots of Mad Mrelf. He probably can’t hear himself _dream_.” 

“What do Doggies dream of when they take a little Doggy snooze? Do they dream of barking orders? Or Bric in his birthday suit sticking it up the ass?”

“Does Bric even _have_ a dick?”

“Heh— _hic_ —that rhymes.” 

It’s that weird interdimensional hour between six shots past smashed and breakfasting with buckets on at 69’s, 79’s lesser-known and far seedier cousin. It's located exactly three levels beneath ‘the clone bar’ and only accessible via a lift in the kitchen _if_ you coughed up sixty-nine credits and one of your brothers could chant _“I need something on my deecee / I don’t even care what species”_ in binary to the serving droid. (You only got one chance, though, so if you fekked up your binary, it was goodbye credits, better go run and beg your Jedi for more.) 

The establishment is currently the scene of a bizarre initiation ritual involving a generous handful of 501st troopers in various states of intoxication and undress, because this place was designed from floor to ceiling to satisfy every hedonistic and voyeuristic pleasure. From the muted magenta lighting and a cocktail of aphrodisiac scents wafting out of air vents; to the surfeit of ergonomic but unhygienic chaises (Kix swears he only tags along to these shitshows to make sure everyone keeps their bandages on and, if they do have to lick something, it _isn’t_ the furniture); to the pantheon of stunning dancers who seem to prefer the slow trickle of clientele made up almost exclusively of fit and largely obedient human males. 

Having drunk one of their newer humorless shinies under the table, Hardcase had presented Echo with a permanent marker and demanded something obscene on Dogma’s forehead. Something that would land the bootlicker with KP duty for a standard week if he wore it to roll call in front of a General. 

“Ugh, you’re taking too long. Just draw a shrivelled cock and pack it in. I’m bored.” 

“No, this is better, I swear.” 

“No, Echo’s just polite, even when he’s being an asshole,” chimes in Fives from a lounge chair, where he has a lapful of Zelly and lace.

“Fuck off. A dick just makes _us_ look like dicks. This is _due_ and every damn trooper will know it.”

“It’s too big. It’s over his whole sour face, for fuck’s sake—it’s not even a proper yirt, what the hell kind of letter is that?” Kix moans as he tries to swipe the marker from Echo’s hand. 

“That’s because I’m not. Fucking. _Finished!!_ ”

And a marker straight up a nostril will land you an uppercut from even the most shitfaced Mandalorian. 

“FUCK!” Echo shouts as his hands belatedly shield his probably broken nose. Kix grabs the thrashing Dogma by his biceps, shoving him hard against the booth. 

“The fuck d’you draw on me?” Dogma slurs, rage and enhanced metabolism burning up what’s left of the booze in his bloodstream. 

“And Yes Man lives to ruin another day, more’s the pity.”

“THAT’S NOT MY FUCKING NAME.” 

“Shove it,” Kix snaps at them both. 

But leave it to Dogma to locate the only chrono in the house mere seconds after regaining consciousness. He’s struggling out of Kix’s hold and complaining about the time. “It’s _hours_ past curfew. What are we even _doing_ here, there’s a fucking war on and you cocksuckers are down here with your dicks out, _everything_ about this shithole goes against Article 125—”

“ _Oh my god_ ,” groans Fives (though at first it’s hard to say if that’s directed at Dogma or his Zelly, 'cause she’s got her hand down his sweats). “You’re such a fucking braintick, Dogma. The rest of us pulled those longneck sticks out of our asses eons ago. Maybe if you could actually _pull someone_ , you’d lose yours too.” 

“Waste of time. He probably couldn’t even land that service droid,” says Jesse, indicating to a droid with the unenviable task of mopping up the inky aftermath of a Nautolan handjob. 

“These gals aren’t paid to speak your language, Dogma. Your rules and regs will do fuck all for you here—and I say that as a fellow fan.” Echo bumps his fist over his heart in a show of solidarity with the hand that isn’t still compulsively checking his nose for fractures; but he’s also contemplating straight up decking the fucker back so he can finish coloring the his stupid face and then get colored in turn—preferably by the only Togruta in the building, whom he’s spotted stretching herself six ways to Csilla on a nearby pole. 

“Is that a challenge?” Dogma sneers with enough malice to melt a Hutt. 

Echo knocks back his tenth firewater and slams the empty glass on the table. “Well, if it’ll get you stiff, I can find someone to make it an _order_.” 

Dogma makes a gesture that says Echo can get fucked in separate orifices through all nine Corellian hells, before climbing up from the back of the booth onto the table, kicking empty glasses and crushing fingers under his sticky boots on an indiscriminate warpath. He jumps onto the ground without a backwards glance and stalks off towards the bar. 

“Tell me he’s not getting _another_ drink.”

“Relax, Kix, we got a bigger problem,” says Rex, who up to about ten seconds ago had been a man unto himself, parked at the foot of a stage, boot tossed over his knee and big hands knitted behind his head, nodding in silent admiration at Echo’s Tog. Now he’s slapping the back of Kix’s head from behind the booth, where the ‘bigger problem’ is apparently Tup forcing a nasty-looking piece of black silicone down the pipes of some senseless 91st recon guy he’s got pinned like a stuck bug, chewing him out for harassment. 

“How you like it, _shabuiir?!_ Fucking sadist. Ask a girl before you start sharing your shitty toys!”

And before you know it, Rex is dumping Tup headfirst into the booth, where his flailing boots knock over the rest of the glasses Dogma hadn't punted onto Jesse’s lap, and Kix is vaulting over the seat to resuscitate this asshat, and Hardcase is fucking _howling_ as he launches the supersized dildo in the general direction of some Wolfpack dudes on the far side of the club. 

Par for the course, really, in an establishment where the patrons and bouncers are one and the same.

No sooner does this relative chaos cease and the recon trooper’s been locked in a service closet than Echo rockets up onto his feet, wide-eyed and towering over his seated brothers to get a clearer view of something. Or someone. 

“Echo?” says Fives, whose batch brain never fails, even when loopy as a nitrogen farmer. He deposits his Zelly and stands up on the arms of his chair, sweats around his ankles, sporting a lacy brassiere round his neck like a pair of flight goggles, to follow his brother’s slack-jawed stare. 

Of course Jesse follows suit, Kix and Tup too, and then Rex, who climbs up next Echo, and finally Hardcase, who gets his knees up on the back of the booth and presciently whips out a holocam no one even knew he _had_ to document whatever’s got the ARC on point. 

It’s Dogma. 

He’s not ordering another round or chatting up a service droid. He hasn’t disappeared into the fresher for a cry and a wank like Jesse predicted, or abandoned them for some other sim-ninjas to rehash Kamino glory days. And he definitely hasn't fucked off to barracks. 

He’s … talking to _her_. 

The crimson Twi’lek. She's built like a mesa and chiseled like a Rylothian cliff face underneath a creamy shimmersilk gown that’s perfectly modest, save for a slit up the side you could land a capital ship in, and has been presiding over the lonely end of the bar in imperious silence for three standard hours now. 

It’s not like Echo has just noticed her. Hells no. They’ve all been drinking her in with sideways glances and shielded stares since they stepped out of the lift, because she’s the color of fresh blood with an _insane_ pattern like inlaid ivory, and she’s as tall as her lekku are long—and fuck are they _freakishly_ long. Liberal bets had been placed earlier in the night on whether or not she could draw them up between her columnar thighs and rub herself off. (Kix had been kinda proud when the clowns used correct anatomical terms—before Jesse queried if fucking to her own pheromones would be, like, the _wildest_ of wild trips, and he had to take another shot.)

No, what’s made the ARC stand up in rapt attention is that Dogma’s the first person to even _approach_ her all vaping night. Even _Hardcase_ , who went through life mad as a mynock, trying everything once and then three more times for luck, couldn’t be dared to ask her name and kept taking the long way round to the fresher so as not to pass within ten feet of "the Ruby Rancor," as she’d been dubbed. 

“Is he—”

“What’s he saying?”

“Fuck if I know.” 

“Pffft, ‘advanced-recon’ my _shebs_.” 

“Fives can lip-read.” 

“What’s he saying, Fives?”

“ _Shiiiit_ , he’s touching her! Fucker’s actually holding her hand!”

“Jango’s bones!”

“'Miracle he can even _reach_. She’s a fucking mutie if I ever saw one.” 

“What. The. Everloving. Fuck.”

Then Hardcase lets out a feral, mad-dog yell that silences half the house, because Ruby’s actually descending from her barstool throne and moving towards the nearest stage, her fiery hand like a vise around Dogma’s forearm as he sort of half jogs to keep up with her. 

“So, Rex, what’s the protocol for reporting KIA by a titanic Twi?” 

“Give me the cam, Hardcase. Are you even getting any of this?”

“Calm your tits. I got it, I got it.” 

When Ruby reaches the elevated dias in two strides ‘cause she’s got legs a parsec long, she turns to face Dogma, looming over the trooper in a way that has Kix with his secret size-kink almost creaming himself. She trails one deadly forefinger down Dogma’s cheek to rest underneath his firm chin. When she stoops further to whisper something in his ear, the other troopers instinctively lean in, as if to eavesdrop from fifteen fucking meters away. After a beat she draws herself up to her full height, finger still propping up Dogma’s chin, and he gives her a decided nod. 

“I think… I think she just… _ordered_ him,” comes Fives’s hesitant report. “I think he just said ‘yes ma’am.’” 

Reports about what happens next differ wildly among the company, due to questionable vantage points, even more questionable states of mind, and the lack of Hardcase’s holocam evidence (as we shall see). 

Whether Dogma pushed her onto the stage, or whether Ruby just sat down. 

Whether he started out seated like a man buckling up for a bumpy ride, or whether someone took pity and shoved a chair underneath him. 

Whether he raised the hem of her daring gown to reveal miles of embossed muscle before reverentially sliding her knees apart, or whether she spread her legs in invitation and then hoisted up her dress herself. 

Whether he dove in hands first, nose first, mouth first, or whether she wrapped her talons around his pretty buzzed head and shoved him in where the stars don’t shine. 

This is why everyone later just defers to Fives, because he was closest to the action and embellishes the story with just the right sprinkling of outlandish detail for it to come pretty fucking close to everyone’s general perception. Which was _in-fucking-credible_ and _sinful as hell._

But what everyone _does_ remember are Ruby’s thighs. 

How they don’t crush Dogma’s skull like a ripe tangoo melon, but _melt_ open under his bobbing mouth until there’s one straight band of wicked red leg stretched ankle to ankle along the edge of the stage, and how she’s embellished like no one’s ever _seen_ , tips to toes and every divot and curve in between. 

Dogma’s got one hand plastered on the swell of banded muscle extending from her groin, and no one can even see his other one because, presumably, he’s three fingers and knuckles deep inside the warm rancor’s den. She starts to lean backwards onto her elbows, shimmersilk highlighting the full swell of her breasts and the delicious contrast of what looks like a set of abs that could file durasteel. Dogma must be doing something right, because her toes are visibly curling as her feet begin to rise upwards. She still spread like a Senate rumor, expansive yet syrupy, and Dogma is still pressed against the crease at the base of her flared legs. He hasn’t yet come up for air, which is probably the reason she’s falling back with a series of rising moans that are echoed by some throaty howls from one corner of the club and the sound of Kix collapsing into the lethris booth with a groan. 

Her luscious lekku are wiggling with a mind of their own on the stage, and just when all of this can’t look any more like some unholy performance from Nar Shaddaa’s travelling circus, Ruby bares her teeth in a silent wail of pleasure and everyone sees for the first time that they’re fucking _filed_ into razor-sharp points, like the Commander’s canines, only _all_ of them. And suddenly everybody’s torn between being relieved that Dogma’s junk is safe in his sweats, and feeling cheated out of seeing the fucker’s manhood chewed down a size. 

“That’s why she’s so _red_ ,” says Jesse, making a pumping gesture in front of his face with the hand that isn’t pumping himself. Rex shakes his head like that’s the most laserbrain thing he’s ever heard, but thinks better about chiming in.

“The blood of unsolicited dicks. Vengeance goddess,” sighs Tup, awestruck. 

Then Ruby finally breaks. Her glorious thighs come down with a _smack!_ on either side of Dogma’s ears, and she’s rolling up to pull his face into the most passionate kiss most of the guys there have ever seen outside of a holodrama. 

After a minute or two, she releases him back into the wild with her first and only smile of the night and Dogma stumbles back towards the 501st gang like a newborn fawn. A service droid rolls up to him amid hoots, cheers, and wolf whistles and proffers a tall glass of something fizzy, which he’s downed by the time he reaches them. 

He climbs back onto the table and comes to stand right over Echo. 

“That’s right, _chakaar_. I’ve read manuals you never even knew _existed_.”

And Dogma smashes the empty glass down at his feet and sticks his fore and middle fingers up in front of Echo’s nose. He spreads them wide and darts his swollen red tongue between them, wriggling it with deliberate vigor in his brother’s stunned face. Then he turns to Hardcase, plucks the holocam from his hands, hops down, and sidles off in the direction of the exit. 

“ _Yuuuuttt!!!_ ” comes the rousing chorus as the lift’s pneumatic doors close on Dogma. 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

“Next morning, I’m battling the usual post-Zelly hangover, hiding in my bucket before the briefing and wondering if any other guys in here had a night _half_ as mind-blowing as ours. They’re all full of color and chatting loud as fucking woolamanders, so probably not.

“The doors open but I’m not paying any attention till I realize the room’s gone silent as space. Not a sound. I look up and there’s Yes Man himself. Dogma. At first I think, the _di’kut_ hasn’t even bothered to wash his face. And then I’m wondering if in some mad fuck-you fit he finished off Echo’s artistry, because it looks really well colored. But it’s _still_ not a Yes-Man-yirt? And then I’m thinking. No. _No_. I pop my bucket off and almost fall out of my fucking chair. 

“I shit you not, sometime in the, I dunno, _two_ standard hours since we cheered him out of 69’s, the fucker’d gone and had his face _inked_. A big fucking _vee_ right over where Echo scribbled his half-assed attempt. And there is noooo mistaking the shape _or_ the pattern. I mean, I’m sitting there just fucking _a-ghast_. 'Cuz every trooper, down to a man, who’d been at 69’s that night would recognize the swirls and lines of Miss Ruby Rancor’s skull-crushing thighs.”

**Author's Note:**

> [The Aurebesh Yirt](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Yirt).
> 
> Dogma may not have gone to [the same school as Commander Bly](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10832952), but he's just as proficient.


End file.
